As
rock grows long in the tooth, as the possibility of it exceeding itself
seems to dwindle further each day, so the temptation is to look back
wistfully to the high points. For some the definitive Lost Moment is
(still) punk’s Pyrhric rage and convulsive passage through the mass
media. Others can’t see their way past the immaculate personal/political
anguish of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On. And the truly perverse
can currently be heard “cheekily” espousing the likes of Wendy (James)
and Patsy (Kensit), in homage to that Lost Moment when Paul Morley got
Kim Wilde onto the cover of the NME (as if there were still “hippies” to be baited, as if we hadn’t all been through New
Pop). In every case, though, the past pinnacles are venerated so
utterly, the result can only be a neurotic endeavour to recapture the
lost glory of those moments and extend it into eternity.

For Creation and its constituency--the sea of floppy fringes, black leather, suede and paisley gathered here today--rock is over,
something that’s been and gone. Creation isn’t fixated on a particular
Lost Moment, or a golden age with clearly defined boundaries, but it
does have a canon of visionary outsiders, honoured tonight on the tapes
played between acts. Tim Rose’s “Morning Dew”, Alex Chilton, The Seeds,
Gram Parsons’ “Grievous Angel”, the Stones’ “Have You Seen Your Mother
Baby”, Lee Hazelwood, all pretty incontestable, really, and close to my
own ideas about the past, not least in the implicit rejection of punk’s
long-term effects (New Wave and New Pop). It’s a canon that should be
remembered, privileged even. The trouble is that the sense of upholding a
legacy through the dark ages of plastic pop has bred a servile and
lily-livered deference to the sources. Rewriting is unavoidable at this
late hour, sure, but what’s needed is an approach that can inflame these
traces rather than preserve them in aspic. Otherwise you become a
living, breathing archive of rock gesture. A mere footnote. The fate
that’s befallen too many of the bands at this event.

HEIDI BERRY
is an admirably eccentric gesture for Creation. She harks back to the
islet of troubled AOR occupied in the early Seventies by Sandy Denny and
John Martyn, and indeed looks gloriously unfashionable in this
context--her thigh-length suede boots, puce velvet jacket and boob tube
jarring conspicuously with the (admittedly ravishing) ideals of female
indie-style visible all around…

The reputedly “quite good” JASMINE MINKS
get people jigging from one foot to the other with their moderately
radiant guitar interplay, but the singer sounds like he’s gargling a
sock, and ultimately theirs is a thin-lipped and ill-fitting
appropriation of “the Sixties”. I never saw a band leave the stage so
lackadaisical and unemphatic a manner.

Then the gaunt, scarecrow figure of NIKKI SUDDEN
shuffles on for a couple of rather scrappy blues numbers. “Death is
Hanging Over Me” would be affecting in its abjection if not for the camp
effect of Sudden’s weak R’s. “Crossroads” is introduced as a song about
Robert Johnson: “And he’s ultimately the reason why we’re all here
today… even though you probably don’t know his name.” Well, yeah, no
doubt that’s true, in the strict archeological sense: but a hell of lot
has happened in the interim. For a lot of the kids here, the Mary
Chain’s riot gig is almost prehistory.

THE JAZZ BUTCHER
gains a point for sounding comparatively robust, but loses several for
his Jennings-and-Darbyshire/Robyn Hitchcock Englishness, and for his
session-standard saxophonist. Unclassifiable, clever-clever indie-bop,
somewhere between Monochrome Set, The Woodentops and Jimmy the Hooever.
Packed, bustling and void.

PRIMAL SCREAM’s
moment has long passed. The talk of feyness and innocence has evidently
riled them into aping the Stones. They’ve abandoned the gossamer
fragility of “Crystal Crescent” and “Gentle Tuesday” for a blues that
sags but never approaches the ponderousness and tumescent turgidity
attained by various visionary white bastardizations of R&B.
Bobby Gillespie and the drummer are the main culprits, the dragging
vestigial limbs. Gillespie’s voice just doesn’t have the grain for
raunch, can only sing ba-ba-ba Bay City Rollers tunes. “Fire of Love” is
rendered impossibly lukewarm and lackluster. Gillespie crouches low,
wigs out in that boneless, rag-doll manner of his, a flailing
cod-dementia, willing it to be as good as the old days.

I’ll venerate FELT
until the end of time for “Primitive Painters” alone. Like Durutti
Column’s “Missing Boy”, it’s a classic defeatist anthem, a shamefaced
confession of an inability to cope with life’s most rudimentary demands
(like eating vegetables). Live, even without the stratospheric
powerhouse of Liz Frazer’s vocal, it’s an irresistible, cascading surge,
a contradiction of the vocal and its morose words. Laurence’s listless
whisp must be the ultimate voice of deficiency and unrealized selfhood: a
one note range, and even then he doesn’t sound in full command of that
note. And there’s plenty more of Felt’s halcyon dappled sunlight and
gilded ripple tonight, a sound perfectly complemented by the trippy back
projections, including one that looks like rays of light convering on a
retina and its burnt-out pupil.

What else to say about THE HOUSE OF LOVE?
Nobody has a bad word for them. In the nicest possible way they are the
Consensus Band of 1988, unimpeachably wondrous. Tonight, an incredible
piece, like a whale song reverberating through the recesses of the
galaxy, turns out to be Terry Bickers messing about while the others
tune up. There’s the godlike glow and gazelle grace of “Destroy the
Heart”, the vast cathedral resonance of “Christine”, the luminous
aftermath of a personal apocalypse that is “Man to Child”. “Shine On” is
all baleful gravitas and cold smouldering ascent, while “Nothing To Me”
is one of these great Guy Chadwick lyrical inversions, like “Blind”:
the title’s a monstrous fib as the sound tells you the singer’s minds
eye is ablaze with the memory of her. Burgeoning axe hero Terry
introduces sounds and effects that just don’t belong in this kind of
pop. “Real Animal” leads into “I Wanna Be Your Dog” from the first
Stooges album, which--impossibly--manages to be both bestial and
celestial. Drowned, I tell you.

MY BLOODY VALENTINE are about to release a fabulous and quite extraordinary five-track EP [You Made Me Realise].
But live, the delicate melodies and the fine-tuning of chaos get
crushed in the melee. “Cigarette In your Bed”, a most peculiar,
unplaceable song on record (a Sonic Youth lullaby?) is a shambles live,
Belinda Jayne Butcher’s bloodless vocal almost completely lost. The
stop-start paroxysms of “Drive It All Over Me” and “You Made Me Realise”
thrive better under the thrash approach, churning up foaming noise in
the Husker Du/Dinosaur style. But they disappoint me by not playing
“Slow”, the sex song of the year (along with “Gigantic” by the Pixies).
With its colossal “Sidewalking” bass, disorientating drones, and
langorous, enervated vocals, it conjures up a honeyed, horny lassitude
of desire to rival AR Kane. This raven-haired thrash-pop has a sight more edges and secrets to it than any of its “rivals.”

The
event peters out with a bit of malarkey involving a cut-out Alan McGee
and Joe Foster attempting to lead a singalong of “We Are the World”. The
“no encore” rule (to ensure each act doesn’t over-run) is observed even
at the end, leaving the crowd restive and frustrated. Overall
impression: a sense of “now” being eclipsed, drained vampirically by the
past and its stature; the loss of the present moment through being made
to seem impoverished next to the history it was umbilically bound to.
Only The House of Love and My Bloody Valentine know that you have to
torch the whole heap of pop signs and totems, rather than shuffle them
about a bit. Only those two bands brought back the sudden quickening of
“NOW” that eluded us most of the time today.